I do not know why I am starting this diary now. It seems silly. Maybe I want to remember all the moments that made my being here worth it. Maybe it is from a place of pure ego and I want others to read what stirred my heart when I am gone. Whatever the reason, I am compelled to write it in this diary before I'm to leave this body. (For longer than brief periods of time)
I want to look back and remember. I want to look back and remember when I am afraid and weak and this human shell is unrecognizable. I want to remember something beautiful. I'll read these pages again when I want to remember why it was I came here in the first place. When my thoughts are scattered and I cannot ground myself, I want something tactile to hold while I read these words. To feel my fingers trace over the words and the paper. I want to remember what made my heart soar and gave me hope and brought me Joy. When my body is falling apart on me, this is what remains. These moments are the heartbeats that keep time with my soul.
The first time it happened it took me by surprise during a trip to New York when I was six. After that, it almost became an addiction; some kind of escape I suppose, or something I used as a coping mechanism for places or situations that I found unpleasant or did not have the tools to deal with at the time. It certainly came in handy in those months at the hospital when I was in pain and my hair was falling out and wished to be anywhere but there.
But that night, it took me quite by the surprise for it was the sheer joy of the moment that accessed the ability within me the first time. It was the first time I was completely overtaken by something bigger than me. I think it was a combination of the music, the dancing and the elation I felt that enabled me to transcend the physical body to be someplace else.
We had come to New York after Fashion Week in Paris under the guise of celebrating the holidays in a new and exciting city (at least for me). In truth, it was an excuse to visit one of Maman's revolving door of lovers (though I hadn't realized it then). She had arranged it perfectly so she could have her freedom, while it was one of the few times of the year I actually got to see my Father.
They made the hand-off with me at the King Cole bar at the St. Regis. I do not remember much of that particular exchange. It comes in bits and pieces. Snap shots of my Father gathering me into his arms, the sight of my Mother removing a hotel room key from her purse over my Father's shoulder and the feel of my Father's fist tightening when my Mother called after him to not allow me to dirty my shoes or my dress.
Whether it bothered him or not, or whether he knew where she was going during that time, I'll never know. Their affair had been brief, my Mother told me. They had no real claim on the other after all, for obvious reasons. Their only connection afterwards revolved around me and discussions of scheduled visits, treatment options and medical bills.
I never asked them if they loved each other for that brief time. I never asked if they both made the decision to keep me, or if one insisted. Maybe I really didn't want to know. You can't go back and erase truths after they are spoken. That is the beauty and the tragedy of them. They sit inside you like so many echoes and creep up on you in quiet moments to either whisper or shout in your ear depending on the day and its distractions. I guess it does not matter now. I knew that he loved me and I know my Mother loves me in her way. That is what I choose to carry with me.
New York at that age felt as much like a fairyland at Christmas. There is a kinetic thrill to the energy in the air that cannot be duplicated at any other time of year. Even though the cold stung my nose as I was not used to the bite of New York winters, I hardly noticed. There were too many delights in the air to be enjoyed and a symphony of sounds to hear. The scent of roasting chestnuts from various vendors on street corners, the lights from the stores that lit up the streets in spectacular splendor, the honking horns of taxi cabs, the rush of heel clicks from women who looked like they stepped right out of the pages of Maman's magazines.
My young eyes devoured everything and it was safe to see such things while tucked neatly against my Father's chest. I asked him why he held me a little tighter when we passed certain people and I will never forget his words. "Wolves do not just exist in the woods my Josie."
My Father was to take me to see The Nutcracker at the David H. Koch Theater and this began my love affair with the ballet. I remember him carrying me because there was so much residue of salt, slush and ice upon the sidewalks. He did not want my feet to get wet or to muddy the shine of my tiny black patent leather shoes.
"The tree Papa! The tree!" I squirmed in his arms and pointed excitedly at the Christmas tree that seemed to extend from the fountain in the middle of Lincoln Center as if it had sprouted directly from it. My Father had chuckled, relented to my squirming and set me down upon the edge of the fountain. I remember the rush of cold air around my legs as I twirled and the feel of his hand in mine as he held it aloft as I spun. I remember the feel of his arms catching me after I had slipped, seconds before I hit the water. It is one of those feelings I love the most. It is something I treasure and that I frequently got to experience whenever I was practicing a pas de deux. There is something so reassuring about the sensation of arms catching you seconds before you hit the ground.
From my youthful perspective, when I entered the theater it looked like it was covered with gold and diamonds. The ornate, spherical chandelier that hung above us had me tugging my father's hand and asking if those were real diamonds as I stared up at the ceiling in awe. The lights nestled within the ceiling looking like so many stars within a golden night sky.
My Father gave me a sideways look and his smile was a bit resigned. "I fear you may have inherited your Mother's admiration for things that sparkle, my dear." He kissed my hand fondly and I fidgeted along with the other children in their holiday best to the sounds of the orchestra tuning their various instruments until the lights went down and the audience applauded for the seemingly very important man who entered with a spot light tracking his entrance and shining upon him. He bowed to us before he faced the stage again. "That is the conductor Josette," My Father whispered. "He leads the orchestra."
There is a beat when the conductor raises his arms, a captivating, magical moment where there is a quiet hush that sweeps across the audience. Every breath is held in anticipation as if waiting for its cue. A magnetic energy pulses in the air seconds before the first note is played and the curtain parts to reveal part of the world that will draw you into its embrace of suspended disbelief for the next few hours. It is a particular high wherever live music, theater and dance is shared between the souls in attendance and those performing that is difficult to match anywhere else. That moment when the curtain rose was the beginning of something even I could not have dreamed of at that tender age, and yet I was forever changed by what transpired afterwards?.
(to be continued)
I want to look back and remember. I want to look back and remember when I am afraid and weak and this human shell is unrecognizable. I want to remember something beautiful. I'll read these pages again when I want to remember why it was I came here in the first place. When my thoughts are scattered and I cannot ground myself, I want something tactile to hold while I read these words. To feel my fingers trace over the words and the paper. I want to remember what made my heart soar and gave me hope and brought me Joy. When my body is falling apart on me, this is what remains. These moments are the heartbeats that keep time with my soul.
The first time it happened it took me by surprise during a trip to New York when I was six. After that, it almost became an addiction; some kind of escape I suppose, or something I used as a coping mechanism for places or situations that I found unpleasant or did not have the tools to deal with at the time. It certainly came in handy in those months at the hospital when I was in pain and my hair was falling out and wished to be anywhere but there.
But that night, it took me quite by the surprise for it was the sheer joy of the moment that accessed the ability within me the first time. It was the first time I was completely overtaken by something bigger than me. I think it was a combination of the music, the dancing and the elation I felt that enabled me to transcend the physical body to be someplace else.
We had come to New York after Fashion Week in Paris under the guise of celebrating the holidays in a new and exciting city (at least for me). In truth, it was an excuse to visit one of Maman's revolving door of lovers (though I hadn't realized it then). She had arranged it perfectly so she could have her freedom, while it was one of the few times of the year I actually got to see my Father.
They made the hand-off with me at the King Cole bar at the St. Regis. I do not remember much of that particular exchange. It comes in bits and pieces. Snap shots of my Father gathering me into his arms, the sight of my Mother removing a hotel room key from her purse over my Father's shoulder and the feel of my Father's fist tightening when my Mother called after him to not allow me to dirty my shoes or my dress.
Whether it bothered him or not, or whether he knew where she was going during that time, I'll never know. Their affair had been brief, my Mother told me. They had no real claim on the other after all, for obvious reasons. Their only connection afterwards revolved around me and discussions of scheduled visits, treatment options and medical bills.
I never asked them if they loved each other for that brief time. I never asked if they both made the decision to keep me, or if one insisted. Maybe I really didn't want to know. You can't go back and erase truths after they are spoken. That is the beauty and the tragedy of them. They sit inside you like so many echoes and creep up on you in quiet moments to either whisper or shout in your ear depending on the day and its distractions. I guess it does not matter now. I knew that he loved me and I know my Mother loves me in her way. That is what I choose to carry with me.
New York at that age felt as much like a fairyland at Christmas. There is a kinetic thrill to the energy in the air that cannot be duplicated at any other time of year. Even though the cold stung my nose as I was not used to the bite of New York winters, I hardly noticed. There were too many delights in the air to be enjoyed and a symphony of sounds to hear. The scent of roasting chestnuts from various vendors on street corners, the lights from the stores that lit up the streets in spectacular splendor, the honking horns of taxi cabs, the rush of heel clicks from women who looked like they stepped right out of the pages of Maman's magazines.
My young eyes devoured everything and it was safe to see such things while tucked neatly against my Father's chest. I asked him why he held me a little tighter when we passed certain people and I will never forget his words. "Wolves do not just exist in the woods my Josie."
My Father was to take me to see The Nutcracker at the David H. Koch Theater and this began my love affair with the ballet. I remember him carrying me because there was so much residue of salt, slush and ice upon the sidewalks. He did not want my feet to get wet or to muddy the shine of my tiny black patent leather shoes.
"The tree Papa! The tree!" I squirmed in his arms and pointed excitedly at the Christmas tree that seemed to extend from the fountain in the middle of Lincoln Center as if it had sprouted directly from it. My Father had chuckled, relented to my squirming and set me down upon the edge of the fountain. I remember the rush of cold air around my legs as I twirled and the feel of his hand in mine as he held it aloft as I spun. I remember the feel of his arms catching me after I had slipped, seconds before I hit the water. It is one of those feelings I love the most. It is something I treasure and that I frequently got to experience whenever I was practicing a pas de deux. There is something so reassuring about the sensation of arms catching you seconds before you hit the ground.
From my youthful perspective, when I entered the theater it looked like it was covered with gold and diamonds. The ornate, spherical chandelier that hung above us had me tugging my father's hand and asking if those were real diamonds as I stared up at the ceiling in awe. The lights nestled within the ceiling looking like so many stars within a golden night sky.
My Father gave me a sideways look and his smile was a bit resigned. "I fear you may have inherited your Mother's admiration for things that sparkle, my dear." He kissed my hand fondly and I fidgeted along with the other children in their holiday best to the sounds of the orchestra tuning their various instruments until the lights went down and the audience applauded for the seemingly very important man who entered with a spot light tracking his entrance and shining upon him. He bowed to us before he faced the stage again. "That is the conductor Josette," My Father whispered. "He leads the orchestra."
There is a beat when the conductor raises his arms, a captivating, magical moment where there is a quiet hush that sweeps across the audience. Every breath is held in anticipation as if waiting for its cue. A magnetic energy pulses in the air seconds before the first note is played and the curtain parts to reveal part of the world that will draw you into its embrace of suspended disbelief for the next few hours. It is a particular high wherever live music, theater and dance is shared between the souls in attendance and those performing that is difficult to match anywhere else. That moment when the curtain rose was the beginning of something even I could not have dreamed of at that tender age, and yet I was forever changed by what transpired afterwards?.
(to be continued)